Read Between the Lines
by LishaLee
Summary: Scene opens at the beginning of "Study in Pink", a few days before he meets John. John brings him alive, someone dark and overwhelming, who no one can stand, to someone nearly bearable. Sherlock realizes he loves John for the change he's brought into his life, but social interactions that would be seemingly "normal" to the rest of the world are unknown to him... at first. Johnlock!
1. Chapter 1: The Beginning of an Era

Hey All! My name is 'LishaLee and I am new to Sherlock fandom but NOT a novice to Sherlock! This is my take of behind-the-scenes, between-the-episodes Sherlock and John. Although there will be eventual JohnLock, I promise I will not fabricate what is not there in the actual show. I could not taint the piece of artistic expression that is the plot line in the actual story, but I want to develop it with more depth with these "supplemental pieces".

Meant to be an accompaniment to the show, not an AU. I will try my hardest to make everything as realistic, believable, and true-to-the-personality of Holmes and Watson, but there will be moments of my own fabrication (as is impossible to avoid in a fanfiction) so dont HATE ME for minor changes I have made. Express to me your disappointment, though! If I do anything horrendously wrong, I need a good slap on the wrist.

I doubt anyone will read this, however.

Begin.

Chapter One: The Beginning of an Era

She opened the tiny cafe three years ago, but business was bad at first. Terrible. It wasn't until 18 months later, nearly dead in the water and neck-deep in debt, when he first walked in and changed EVERYTHING (as he usually does, naturally).

Of course, no one really KNEW him at first. It was months later before he turned from the tall, gangly, odd-man who got the simple black tea and sat in the darkest corner of the shop with his never-ending legs folded neatly beneath him. The overstuffed arm chair overwhelmed his bony frame, even with his great coat wrapped around him.

But then the public learned that the "famous, magical, Sherlock Holmes" frequented the shop, and suddenly business was booming.  
It didn't change the man, much. The staff still saw him everyday, when they opened , and then perhaps again, around close. Tamarienne Hampshire was her name, the young shop owner, and she often opened the shop at five am to his shiny black shoes and billowing coat, and closed it after them at eleven thirty pm, sometimes even shooing him away from his corner where he was lost in a myriad of thoughts. The morning staff knew him by "Mr. Holmes", or teased him once in a while with "Detective", as they handed him his cup. He nods or smiles, but since that very first day he arrived, when he said "I will have a small cup of black tea, nothing else... ever.", he never needed to speak his order again. They all spoke in whispers about him- simple, quiet man. Simple, quiet, lonely man, they would say. When the newspapers began to run stories on him, they could hardly believe them. Tamarienne shook her head at the supposed exaggerations of this mans character, and commented to Charlotte, the cashier, that instead Mr. Holmes seemed TAME, at best. (for now)

The regulars were much loved, at that tiny cafe. Not that they minded the wave of a hundred or so new patrons every time the newspaper or tabloids released a fresh story of intrigue on the man. Under the strict eye of Tamarienne, the masses would order on tip-toe, straining their necks over each others shoulders and heads in order to catch a glimpse of pale cheekbones and clasped knuckles around now-cold cup of tea, but they never bothered him. She made sure of that, worried at first that they would stampede him and his thoughts. He either didn't mind being an exhibit or didn't notice the unblinking eyes peering at him from every crevice of the shop. He never stopped coming, so they didn't either- like clockwork.

But it was the regulars- those folks who lived or worked nearby and came to know the shop as home- they were the light of the shop and her owner. She spent her mornings handing cups and plates and napkins here and there, making sure to know each by order and name. Derrik the mailman liked a fork with his muffin, Mrs. Carraway takes three biscuits- two to go and one to stay-; Georgina Potter takes her piece of stale bread for her birds, and Mr. Holmes likes his simple black tea in the same mug, in the same corner, in the same corner chair.

It was near to three months of this, when she finally had a full conversation with him. Not accustomed to his voice, she almost jumped when he spoke, handing him his tea with his usual "How are you doing this morning, Detective?"

He gave his usual nod, about to walk away, but then spun back. "I'm doing well, actually." His voice was deep, gravelly, and not unkind. "Thank you, Ms. Hampshire."

"Tamarienne." She quickly corrected. "Please, call me Tamarienne. I'm not an old lady."

"Of course... Tamarienne." He hesitated, as if tasted the letters to see if they fit on his tongue.

"Do you live around here?" She inquired, taking advantage of this moment of dialogue. Who knew when she was going to have another chance? Most of her regulars started volunteering information about themselves, after awhile, once they got comfortable. But not Mr. Holmes. Besides his nod and an occassional smile, he was a mystery. Quite ironic, being a detective.

He nods, his eyes trained on the floor, and facial muscles pursed, as if he was fighting with himself- talk to her, or retreat to his corner... He couldn't decide if leaving the conversation abruptly would be rude or not. Don't normal people give cues when they are ready to finish a dialogue? Does he just simply say 'goodbye', though he is merely walking a few feet away? "I live on Baker Street. 221B."

"Oh! Over Streeters. Pretty quiet over there- do you live alone?"

He nodded again, this time letting his eyes rise up to her face, instructing himself through the cues. _Eye contact. Smile. Turn slightly away._ " I've been looking for a flatmate. Passively really." _One step away. Smile. Eye contact. Sip of tea. Truely he didn't really look, just spoke to someone in passing about his empty room. Didn't know who he said it to. Could have been an empty room. Still counts as looking._ "I don't really care if the dpare room is let, but its dull in the house without a bit of clatter." _Shrug. Turn completely away. Retreat. Look over shoulder._

Tamarienne nods and smiles, and gets back to work. He settles into the cocoon of his coat, closes his eyes, and pulls his knees up to his chest. Awkward position, but comfortable.


	2. Chapter 2: Before Pink Lady, Pink Case

Chapter Two: Before Pink Lady, Pink Case

Sherlock slipped into the french doors at the bottom of the steps, leaving the quiet early-morning hush of the street level behind. The cafe was open, but empty, only Tamarienne and one of her morning minions present, tidying up behind the counter before the morning rush.

"Morning, Mr. Holmes." The minion spoke, smiling, handing him his tea.

He stared over the two. It was almost impossible to shut off his brain, even in a place so-intentionally-a-haven as this. He didn't know why he came here, really. Every day- every day.

It was a place of public privacy... a space in which he could occupy while others were around, and yet be entirely within his mind without anyones comment or care. At home, on Baker Street, there was the NOISE of SILENCE and the CROWDING of ALONE-NESS that he could never properly FEEL. But here, with the voiceless voices, and the faceless faces, he could think in the movement. Did it make sense? No.

"Ugh, I hate to dust." Tamarienne released, stepping down from her chair, where she was so precariously standing a moment ago, dust rag in hand, cleaning the dark, stained-glass chandeliers.

"These high-up ones are the worst."

Sherlock breathed out, set his tea down on the counter, and with one hand jumped over the counter. A little squeal of surprise from the minion, but Tamarienne merely took in a breath. Sherlock took the rag from her, and promptly reached the hanging glass without even getting off of his heels. The low-ceilings of the basement cafe spoke of his height with the words looming, giant, towering... All useful in this moment. He satisfied the last fixture, handed the cloth back to her, and hopped the counter again. Tip of the finger to the curl- a make-shift salute- and took up his tea towards his chair.

"Thank you so much." The lady said, face blooming in appreciation.

"No worries, Miss Hampshire- Tamarienne."

"Find a flatmate yet?" She inquired, eyebrows raising.

"Matter of fact, I did." He took a sip, let out a breath of satiated taste buds," Moves in later today." He shrugged. "We'll see how promising he comes to be."

She laughed and nodded. "How odd these newspapers seem to make of you- but here you are, just a normal human being."

Sherlock was puzzled at this, face scrunching up in an almost-grimace. "N...Normal? Surely you are not serious, Tamarienne!"

She choked, flustered. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Holmes... I mean..."

"You would say to me that I am normal? You mean- a person whose actions would be easily defined as 'generally acceptable mannerisms' or-" SCOFF "politically acceptable. Normal? Ordinary!"

Tamarienne pursed her lip. "Now Mr. Holmes-"

"Sherlock- Tamarienne... my overbearing, overwhelming, over-protective, UNDER estimating brother is 'Mr. Holmes.'" His face was red. His knuckles white around the cup. He looked helpless for a moment, and then enraged, then quieted, then exasperated. "I dont know if I should take that as a compliment at the moment, Miss. I strive all of my life to be the EXACT OPPOSITE of ordinary, at the same time being ridiculed because of that very thing. I can't be normal. I don't know how- impossible. Yet, yet... its not something I have forgotten about. Surely- it is something I am reminded of every moment of my day, how very UN-normal I am." He inhales, pausing.

"Sher-"

"No. Not your turn." He interrupts quickly. "I fear I may have lead you to believe that I was just a quiet, normal, DULL man, since I lead a very routine life in front of you. I shouldnt dare expect you to know of anything about me beyond the doors of this establishment, since you know of very little about my life... out there... But I dont know much about it either- I admit. Its my fault, I assume, for alloting this PLACE to be the only place I... feel... like expressing NONE of my brain and more of my... other bits. Emotions. Breathing. Action. Stillness."

"You're not making any sense." The minion spoke out, but was hushed by her boss.

"What I am SAYING-" He grit his teeth, and then released. "IS I am far from ordinary. But that's what I must do- out there." He gestured to the doors. "In here, I've reserved to be just a place I can think- and feel." Moment... breathing... then, quieter, a low rumble."I dont feel much. Not very often, at least. But I need to express that pent up emotion somewhere. I prefer it here. I prefer it somewhere both public and private- here. Not home. home is too..." The next two words were almost too quiet to hear. "vulnerable... quiet..."

Tamarienne shook her head in disbelief. She had never seen him "expressing his pent-up emotion" all of those months. He had always been stone in a chair.

Sherlock knocked back the still-hot tea and closed his eyes against the bright pain in his mouth, down his throat, and into his stomach. Then he stood up quickly, handed the cup to the shocked, mulling members of staff before him, and departed with a "so sorry for that outburst." (did he say it, or just think it?) and a whip around of his coat.

Outside, the sun was a deep shade of blue-grey behind the London coverlet of clouds. He thought through every step. What had he done? What were they thinking about him, right now? Does he care? No matter- he probably couldn't return to that place for awhile... ever... This is what comes of FEELINGS. But they have to go SOMEWHERE, and he cannot choose 221B for this. Its too needed for him to have that place uncluttered and liberated- only a cold, colorless chamber to contain his rational thoughts, logical findings, deductions, reasoning, FACTS. No fiction there, no feelings there. Too complicated. Too overwhelming. Too stimulating.


End file.
